


Make Your Body Lie

by kleine_aster



Category: Batman (Comics), Grayson (Comics)
Genre: Complete, Emotional Manipulation, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mind Games, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:02:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kleine_aster/pseuds/kleine_aster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a lesson that every spy needs to learn, and that's how to keep your cover even if things get intimate – how to lie with your body if you have to. In order to attain this skill, Dick turns to the one person he can still trust, someone who knows a thing or two about keeping secrets. They share a night in which Bruce tries to teach Dick how to keep his feelings under wraps, but the exact opposite of that happens, to both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to our 2014 Bruce/Dick Christmas Swap! A love letter to all my awesome fellow shippers, and the beautiful trainwreck that is Bruce and Dick's reboot relationship. XD  
> Thanks to epigenetics for organizing (the Christmas Swap, not the canon trainwreck)!

The last night Dick spends in the Batcave, on a training mat hidden in a dark, damp, secluded corner, he has a dream that he's had many times, in one variation or the other.

Before, though, he replays their fight in his mind. His battered body aches with the memory of every single harsh blow, oh and the physical punches and kicks as well. His brain turns it into a dance before his eyes, and he can barely tell if it _had_ been like that, or if it had been something baser, more primitive. He can't separate it. He sees himself counter and dodge and push back, and he re-lives the surge of archaic pride that comes with _mounting_ his bigger opponent, but. But, but his mind automatically zeroes in on _him_. Bruce. Batman. Elusive and solid as rock at the same time, slamming his fingers down on Dick's buttons as he shames him and guilts him and hounds him and challenges him to push back, push further push _harder_. _Yes, Dick, my boy. Good_ , and Dick flies feet-first through the fight in his mind, while his body squirms on the mat, and he feels sick and aroused at the same time. And it's as familiar and comforting as any bad habit is.

 _How many times have we done this_ , Bruce had asked it himself in his deep serious voice. This little dance they do, making each other grunt and strain and ache, and Dick wonders sometimes.

Batman and Robin, master and student, brothers in arms. _Brothers. Yeah right_.

He thinks about how they took their shirts off, and how there is no real reason for it, except. Except -

Dick falls asleep with the images running hot through his mind, and it comes as no surprise that, sleeping, he sees it all _again_ , only this time it's different. His subconscious is at work turning their grapples into grabs, their firm holds into sweaty embraces. Otherwise, it's exactly as ruthless and blood-drenched as it was, and Dick will ask himself later if his dreams are confusing things, or if they're uncovering something that's there, anyway.

It ends differently, too. It ends with Bruce's large body on top of him, and the immediate realization that whoever wins this will own the other. Dick finds himself shivering in the big man's grip, his face down on the mat and his ass up against the other's codpiece, and he knows that he _let_ him win, even though he wasn't supposed to.

 _Are you them, or are you me,_ Dream-Bruce challenges him, running his nails across Dick's bare hips before he grabs them and thrusts, as if he wants to make them one, with Dick as an extension of himself. It's lewd, betraying his strict words and his voice that remains cold and distant. And Dick yelps and tosses his head back and rubs himself on him like an overeager pet, because he knows he's allowed to behave this way, now that he's been bested. He knows that Bruce is hot under his tights and trunks, too, and he _thinks_ knows that it's for him. The older man's weight flattens him against the mat as he shifts and starts pulling down Dick's pants. Having his ass exposed in this position is mildly humiliating, punitive almost, and his stiffening cock twitches nervously as he wonders if Bruce will give him a spanking, but he doesn't.

There's a moment of almost affection (or appreciation, which in Dick's mind is the next best thing) in how Bruce appraises his bare buttocks, runs his big hands over them as if the shape and feel was pleasing him to the point of distraction. But there is no sound coming from him (it's not even worth making a sound), and it only lasts a second, and then Dick feels him dig his callused thumbs in hard when he opens him up. Dick squirms against the damp, rubbery mat, eyes nearly bulging out of his head in helpless surprise. He's slick between his thighs, slippery, accommodating to Bruce's coarse probing fingers. And for a moment he's confused, he doesn't know if he's sweating, or bleeding or if he's soiled himself or what, but then he realizes that he's _wet_. He's _wet_ for him. This has happened at some point, and he doesn't know when or how, maybe he's already been like that while they've been hurting each other, while Bruce's urgent yet cool voice rang in his ears. He doesn't know. He knows he _can't_ even get wet there. It _shouldn't_ be a thing but it is. He's dripping wet, aching for him.

Dick groans, and his legs follow the spreading motion of Bruce's hands on their own account. He's presenting himself, offering himself up. He waits for a gentle tug on his cock that never comes. Cold subterranean air hits his pounding erection, and does nothing to appease it. When Bruce slides his fingers – not a finger, _fingers_ – inside him, they meet almost no resistance. They go in like he is silk, like he is _nothing_. Dick whimpers and cringes, slamming his fist into the floor at how good it feels and how bad that makes him feel. And then, he hears a low, soft "Hhh," come from Bruce's lips as he tears at the skin of Dick's neck with his teeth. His lips are broken and hard. He smells good. His movements are controlled. He buries his fingers in him until he finds that spot where Dick's barely ever been touched before. And then he _plays_ with it, and now Dick is sobbing underneath him, wriggling and gasping, clawing around on the ground for something to hold on to. He's sobbing, but he's not sobbing for him to stop. He does because this, this feels like _exactly_ what he wants, what he _needs_ , and Bruce knows it and Dick is _mortified_. It's a good thing that Bruce seems not at all interested in looking at his face. Dick screws his eyes shut with tears running out of them, and figures that this is more button-pushing, _literal_ button-pushing but he wants it too much to resist. Bruce's manner is cold, but his fingers are warm and slick and _good_ , forcing translucent emission out of Dick's cockhead, making him leak from both ends, and all he can do is groan again. Sometimes, an answering noise emerges from Batman's throat, but its nature is vague, neither approving nor disapproving, but something in Dick surges every time he gets a response. His balls are seizing up and his member feels unbearably hard and thick between his own legs, and he doesn't know what's more maddening, the urge to get off, or the fact that he doesn't know what Batman   _t h i n k s_.

He isn't even sure if Bruce likes him _this_ , if he is into it, or if this is another one of his games. He doesn't find out until the torturous fingers recede. Dick bites down on his lip at the sudden sense of loss, then flinches as he feels the warmth of another's large, naked erection pressed against his back, leaving a wet trail where it touches him.

Batman – Bruce – puts a soothing hand on his back at his reaction, and it's the first light touch he's used since it started, and Dick becomes very still. It's unfathomably hot to have Bruce's hard cock squeezed against his round buttocks, but it's also … mundane and _human_ and it's intensely comforting to know that Batman _needs_ and _wants_ something, too. Dick hears him breathe heavily through his nose, feels the dampness of his hands and the heat of his cock, and he smiles, with his head down.

He thinks that he whispers something, about how he wants Batman inside him, how he's always wanted, how he's ready, how Bruce should _hurry_ but it's all a blur and maybe he says nothing at all.

He feels the desperate scrape of Bruce's teeth against his shoulder again as he pushes inside. Dicks gasps, but in his dream, his slick, hungry body adapts to the intrusion with otherworldly ease, like it's always been meant this way. He quivers and clenches shut around Bruce, wet and warm and whole, and behind him, Bruce lets out a moan as if it's the fulfillment of something he's been waiting a long time for. Dick nearly weeps again, because there is lust, _so much_ lust, but there is also a strange sense of accomplishment and he's suddenly not so sure who won anymore.

Dick thinks, or maybe says, that he will make him come, and then he thinks about how making Batman come will also mean making him _soft_ , and he so wants that.

 _Good_ , Bruce says or maybe not, and his big hands close around Dick's hips again, closing the distance.

Dick bucks his hips and moans, and then they both moan, and there is something almost eerie in how fast they find a perfect rhythm, like a well-oiled machine, like they are in the field, only a perverse variation that's strictly designed to drive Dick out of his mind. Around them, their world lies in tatters and ruins, all the costumes and the toys broken on the floor. It's the end and the start of something. The complicated lighting in the cave paints their outlines against the ragged walls, distorted and bizarre, two shadows moving against, and with each other.

When Dick wakes up hours later, he's had one of those crappy nights where it feels like he'd fallen asleep only three minutes ago.

He feels woozy and disoriented, and there's a dull pain in his loins.

He barely remembers it ever being this intense. Like always, he feels a short onset of shame, but it passes quickly. There's only so much shame he can spare for the deranged mentor crush that's been with him since he'd been sixteen years old.

Next to him, along with some forged papers and a very small communication device (his Bat severance package), is a small tray with tea, toast, some honey, and a bowl of cereal. The toast slices are slightly burned, and the milk is in the carton instead of having been poured into something fancier, which means that Bruce has made this for him.

Dick's first instinct is to smile. His second is to panic, and check his sleeping bag for treacherous stains. But there is nothing. Apparently, he hasn't even come, another thing that never came to fruition, like so many.

"That can't be healthy," he mumbles to himself, scratching his neck. Blood shoots into his face, which at least has the effect of stirring him awake some more. He snorts. _Of course_ it's not healthy, _none_ of this is healthy, but he has a whole long list of other things to worry about.

He has to say Goodbye to that part of himself, anyway. That dream, that particular dream has never seemed deader in the water as it does now.

_After this, between us … things can't be the same again._

His stomach suddenly starts dropping, and he thinks maybe he should eat.

He drowsily munches down some toast and cereal, feeling empty and numb, and maybe that's not such a bad thing. He can't think of Alfred, of Babs, of Damian's tombstone without feeling a sharp sting of pain, and he can't think of Bruce without feeling … other things. It seems better to steer his mind away from it, because his life has ended, and he'll need a lot of room for his new one if he wants to get it right.

He rolls up his sleeping bag and stuffs it into a corner along with the tray so Bruce can find it. He briefly considers leaving him a little message, but he cannot bring himself to write something innocent right now, so he doesn't. It's not like Bruce wrote him one, anyway.

And then Dick Grayson, who is not a Flying Grayson, not Robin, not Nightwing, not Batman, not anybody really, gathers his few belongings and slinks out the secret exit.


	2. Chapter 2

Months later, rookie Agent 37 is sitting in Matron Bertinelli's office with his head in his hands, groaning for reasons completely unrelated to sexy dreams, or sexiness in general, which is kind of the problem.

"Do we _have_ to watch it again?!"

"I don't, but _you_ do," Helena replies, while having way too much fun rewinding the surveillance tape one more time. Then playing it again, then skipping back and forth in slo-mo.

" _Che macello_! You're kissing her like you _hate_ her or something."

"I didn't hate her! But I also didn't … like her? I mean, I barely knew her. And she smuggled Kalashnikovs."

"You look mad. You look _mad_ that you have to kiss her. You think a worldly woman won't notice?"

"Well, she … I think she called me a klutz in Kazakh?"

Dick is tempted to watch the tape through his fingers, like a horror movie. As far as discomfort goes, he'd definitely take being strapped to a helicopter that's wired to explode over a close-up of himself repeatedly shoving his tongue into that arms dealer lady from Kazakhstan.

"Agent 37, look at this, were you _gagging_?"

"What? No, I- No! My mouth was dry. It happens when I'm nervous -"

" _Tsk_. Let's look at the other one, that Belgian broker. Computer, _Berggruen-22_ , please."

"Oh come on, that's – is that really necessary?"

"There. There it is again. You're kissing the man like he's homework. That won't do. Though … hm."

"What?"

Dick watches his partner tap the remote as if she's lost in thought, which is _much_ preferable to watching the recording of him canoodling with a bearded stranger on the hood of said stranger's Benz. Maybe if he endures this for a couple more minutes, and proves himself cooperative, this brutal evaluation will be over quicker somehow, magically.

"I'll give you this," Helena says, pointing her remote at the screen where Dick now visibly flinches as the man begins kissing his neck. "Your level of discomfort appears to be the same regardless of the partner's gender, so there's no difference in this area, which can be an asset. However, there _is_ discomfort, in the first place. And that's … discomforting."

In lieu of an answer, Dick clears his throat.

" _Why_ would you flinch when he kisses you?"

"He … startled me?"

Helena pauses the tape and shoots him a look. It's sharp, but there something almost pitying in it. "Agent 37, have you never been intimate with someone you didn't care for before?"

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Dick mumbles, slinking deeper into his seat.

" _Ragazzo mio_ , in our line of work, it is."

Matron sighs before she turns off the TV, and comes to sit next to Dick. She relaxes her shoulders, turning more into a concerned partner and colleague than a stern taskmaster. Dick feels comfortable around her; as comfortable as a double agent ever gets, anyway. He likes her. If circumstances were different, they could probably be friends. Dick wouldn't have minded it one bit.

"Look, I've seen you flirt," she says. "And I've flirted with you. I know you can do it, even though you coast on your looks a little much. But as long as you have those, who could blame you?"

Dick winces at her. "Not sure if I should say _thanks_ for that, but … thanks?"

Helena smirks. "Oh, right, and there's that. The innocent routine, half-and-half. Coy, but cocky. It's cute, it works. But when it comes to the physical part …"

She bluntly points both of her thumbs downward, which is somehow way more humiliating than Dick had anticipated.

"I don't like doing it." He sounds defensive. _Renitent_ even; not good.

"Yes, I understand it's not your favorite tool in the arsenal, and it's not mine either, believe me," Helena says, and Dick can tell that she means it. "But, even if you don't actively seek them, you will get into these situations. And if you do, you can't … do whatever _that_ was."

She points an accusing finger at the dark TV screen. "That poor Mr Berggruen must've thought he had terrible breath!"

"Yeah, that poor duplicitous, money-laundering corporate shark," Dick grumbles, folding his arms over his chest.

Helena rolls his eyes at him. "That is _exactly_ what I'm talking about, agent. That attitude. If you want this to work, you need to think of it as just another part of the job. Because it is."

Dick presses his lips together. There goes another thing he'd hoped he'd never be asked to do. The list is rapidly growing. But he figures, at least it's another week without being ordered to kill someone, which is the thing that truly keeps him up at night.

His spy partner shrugs, but she seems not entirely unsympathetic to his situation. "Or think of it as casual sex. If it helps-"

"It's different," Dick says quietly. "This is different, and you know it."

Casual sex is fine. It's something you do for fun, and with someone you at least like. Helena seems experienced enough to tell the difference. She gives him an almost non-existent nod, indicating that she does.

Dick leans back in his chair, attempting to look compliant and not too bothered by this. "Okay, Matron, what do you want me to do?"

"I want you to practice, Grayson."

"With…" He straightens himself, briefly feeling heat rise in his cheeks. "With you…?"

Helena purses her lips as if the thought is amusing to her. "No can do, 37," she says, with only the slightest hint of regret. "No intimacy between you and your spy partner, it's rule number one. Well, technically, rule number ten in the official handbook, but it's important."

She gets a teasing twinkle in her eye. "You are of course free to study _my_ tapes, if you'd like to glean a few tricks –"

Dick produces a noise in his throat that makes her chuckle.

"Or I could enlist Tiger, and Agents 20 through 30, to look at yours again and offer feedback…?"

" _Matron-_ "

She grins. It's almost like they're two good co-workers shooting the breeze, if the context had been less disturbing, which it isn't. Dick's pout is perhaps 30% genuine, but since he's been building his reputation as the organization's clueless innocent, it passes the test.

"Listen." Helena becomes all business again; not unfriendly, but unyielding. "I know you have the holidays off, so what I want you to do is, put yourself out there, and work … on your physical responses. I don't care how you do it. Don't want to know with whom you do it. But we need to see some improvement in this area. Not only me, the Director, too."

Dick's shoulders are drooping. He'd been hoping to spend his holidays doing something that … would make him feel _less_ dead inside. He knows he probably couldn't have afforded the risk to see … stalk his friends in Gotham, even incognito. But even going to a freaking park by himself without a ulterior motive seems like a luxury right now.

"My homework is to spend my free weekend having emotionless sex with total strangers…?"

"Now, Dick," Matron pats his knee before she shoos him out of her office. "You say that like it's a bad thing."


	3. Chapter 3

Whenever Dick asks him for something these days, he comes back with, "Anything."

It's a warm answer, an affirming answer, and his deep voice sounds so good when he says it. But Dick knows that it's penance, too. Because deep inside, Batman knows how much he'd been asking of him. Bruce knows that it hasn't been _Batman's_ sacrifice, even if that was what he'd called it.

Dick is speculating, of course. Bruce's lack of self-awareness should never be underestimated.

He still likes hearing it, anyway.

This time, though, Batman – Mr Malone – does not say that. Instead, he says, "What exactly are you asking from me, Birdwatcher?"

He sounds confused, mildly emotionally affected (it's unclear in what way), and like he's not performing five other tasks while they talk, which is … notable.

Birdwatcher – Dick – pinches the bridge of his nose, and is glad that Batman can't see how red his face is. "Look. I'm not suggesting that you and me do … the do."

He listens to himself, and swallows. Great. Here he is trying to convince Bruce that he's mature enough for honeypot lessons, and expresses himself in the most middle school vernacular possible.

"Hrm," Batman makes. Whether it's disapproval of his word choice, vague interest in the subject matter, or a sore throat, Dick isn't sure. He can read Bruce, but not so well without seeing him.

"All I'm asking for is some tips. Because … you've been doing this thing for years, you know."

"I've been doing what," Bruce asks briskly, and Dick is reminded that he doesn't like to talk about how 50% of his actual life is hinging on lies.

Dick won't let himself be deterred, though. With all the things that had crashed and burned between them in the last few years, they're way past pulling punches. "Come on. I was _there_. At the parties, the soirees. And … in the field, too. I saw you fake it. I saw you use it to influence people, to make them think you're someone you're not."

" _It?_ "

Bruce's voice hasn't lost any of its sharpness, and like always, Dick is taken aback by how _present_ he is, even if he's miles away. There's a clear warning for him to choose his next words carefully, but Dick is doing that, anyway, because this whole thing is awkward.

"You know." He bites his lip. Not that Bruce can see it. "Your sex…-"

He trails off, feeling shy about this all of a sudden. It occurs to him that they've never really talked about stuff like this, outside of some good-natured teasing. Dick had been sixteen when they'd met, he'd had _the talk_ a long time ago, and they had both always been romantically active, and _so_ manly.

There'd been that one time Batman had told him to always remember condoms. That had been weird. And strangely sweet.

"Birdwatcher."

Mr Malone sounds stern, and Dick can tell he's already halfway to actually giving him tips, because he cannot resist that kind of thing. "If you want me to teach you something, you should be able to say it."

"Sexuality. Your sexuality."

The line goes quiet for a moment. Dick thinks he can hear him breathe through his nose. When he speaks again, Batman's voice sounds more like Bruce's voice, and Bruce sounds almost comically offended.

"You think that's something I do…?"

"I _know_ that's something you do," Dick says, plainly. "All the time."

His fingers clamp down on the tiny receiver. _Maybe you did it to me. I don't know._

"You're mistaken," the man on the other line grumbles at him.

"Really? Never faked it? Every time you looked deep into some mafia princess' eyes and told her that you didn't _care_ who her father was? Every time some assassin pretended she fell in love with you to trick you, you never once tricked her back? You always … meant it?"

"I always believed I did."

There's a pained crack in his voice, weaving tales of broken promises and shattered hopes, and it makes Dick's heart hurt … but it's such a well-placed, well-modulated crack that it makes his hairs stand up, too.

"Malone, are you faking it _right now_?"

More silence.

Dick wonders if Bruce is quietly reevaluating his life, or reading some unrelated alert that's started flashing across his screens. In the end, he hears him sigh deeply.

"Go and get a Daily Planet the day after tomorrow. Look at the personal ads, page 8. You'll know it when you see it." 

"Wh-"

"We'll talk there."

Malone's voice almost goes soft at the end, and then he severs the connection, and that's as strong a _Yes_ as Dick could possibly get.

His fingers are shaking when he puts down the receiver, and his hands are fidgety as he stuffs it back into its hiding place. The way his heart starts stupidly pounding at the thought of them meeting tells him that this is dangerous idea. And maybe he's weak, and maybe all he wants is to see a _loved one_ familiar face over the holidays.

But, after all – if you were asked to learn how to make your body lie, why _wouldn't_ you go directly to the King Of Lies, if you knew him?


	4. Chapter 4

"How do you want to do this, Dick?"

Bruce looks very serious, and sounds as if he wants to quiz him. He also looks very exhausted, and sounds hoarse. His skin is pale and the shadows under his eyes are deep, and Dick can tell that he's being a tired Bat these days. There's a fresh cut over his eye and a bruise darkening his strong jaw, and he looks like he's lost weight. The rookie spy wonders what it has taken him to make this meeting even possible.

Dick, on the other hand, has probably put way too much work into looking really good today, something he starts feeling really self-conscious about.

They're sitting in a hotel room in Paris. A tiny, family-owned one, not a five star one – as inconspicuous as they could get. Down in the streets, recorded bells are chiming holiday tunes for the shoppers; some of it is warbling through their curtained windows. They've done away with most of their respective disguises. It gives Dick tiny little pangs to look at Bruce's real face, but maybe it's just homesickness.

The first thing the older man had done, after the door had closed behind them, was pulling Dick into a hug. Not too long, not too short; even-tempered. It had _felt_ genuine, though it had happened too fast for Dick to really savor it.

"It's good to see you," Bruce had said, rubbing Dick's arm in a way that had seemed a little less conscious and deliberate.

Now they're sitting across from each other, Dick on the bed in his very form-fitting night blue t-shirt and pants, wearing some serious cologne, and a slightly disheveled – but still handsome – Bruce on the brocade armchair next to the old-fashioned TV that says _Bienvenue Messieurs Chauve & Souris_.

The strange thing is, as much as it hurts, as weird as it is, Dick feels safe with him, closer to home than he has in months.

He clears his throat. "Well, um. Matron … Matron actually gave me some pointers for what she wants me to work on…"

Bruce watches him from heavyset blue eyes. "And what Matron says, you do."

It sounds like he's re-stating Dick's secret mission. But there's a hint of … mild disapproval? Sadness?

"That's right." What else could he say, it's true. It's what he's supposed to do.

"Do you play well with her…?" Bruce asks, and now it's _clearly_ there. A note of possessiveness, and Dick nervously wonders if their lesson has already started.

"Yeah. She's something, you know. Smart, driven, really strict. But I'm getting good at following her directions, and she likes that."

He can't resist a little stab at Bruce, shooting him a sly look from beneath thick dark eyelashes. "… we make a good duo."

Bruce shifts in his armchair. He hasn't even taken off his coat.

"How would you like to start?" He asks gruffly, obviously unwilling to further discuss Dick's great rapport with his new mentor figure.

"Right." Dick takes a deep breath, straightening his shoulders. He's already mulled it over, maybe a little deeper than necessary. "I want you to start with showing me The Look."

"The look."

Bruce tilts his head, blinking inquiringly. It's a little insulting, because Dick is pretty sure the older man knows what he's talking about.

"You know what I'm talking about. The one where you look at someone as if you love them, even if you … if you don't."

His former partner's bruised face seems to turn to stone for a moment, as if offended, or hurt. He hesitates briefly, but then he leans forward in the chair, edging closer to the younger man.

And then, he does it. He shows it to him.

It's incredible, and spooky in how perfect it is. The exhaustion seems to melt off Bruce's face, and then the hardness in his features simply _breaks_ , making way for something raw and pure and vulnerable. He somehow starts to shine as if there was a spotlight on him, and his eyes go wide and well up with a softness and sweetness that Dick has only ever seen in his most relaxed moments. His rough lips part as if he's dying with a desire to kiss him. Dick's breath gets caught in his throat. He's seen him pull this off before, but never up close, never directed at him. Bruce looks warm and protective and gentle, he looks at him as if he's the key to his happiness, the most precious thing he's ever seen.

And it _hurts_.

"That one," Bruce inquires, his voice completely unchanged. It's eerie.

"Y- y… yeah..."

Before he can help it, Dick gets swept up in something, lifts his hand and puts it around the non-bruised side of Bruce's face, running his thumb across his shaved cheek, and Bruce doesn't only allow it, he leans into his touch like a big trusting cat, like he's wanted nothing more.

"So …" Dick's adam's apple bobs in his throat as he swallows. "How'd you to that…?"

When Bruce answers, he has adjusted his voice to sound kind, intimate. You could almost believe it's the effect of Dick touching him. "I thought about what you said to me. And what I said to you, and … the trick isn't to lie to _them_ ," he says, longing blue eyes still staring into Dick's, "The trick is to lie to _yourself_ until you believe it. And that's how I do it."

"Is that what you're doing right now…?" Dick wonders, and Bruce hums softly at his fingers trailing his face. "Lie?"

Bruce says nothing until Dick gets it in his head to lean in experimentally, inching towards his lips, which causes the other man to let out a sharp sigh and break it off.

Dick pulls back, feeling embarrassed.

"You're a born performer, Dick," Bruce says, stern and sober again, "I find it hard to believe you can't do it."

"Yeah…?"

Bruce grunts in affirmation, sitting upright in his chair and looking expectant.

"Um. Okay …"

The mild chill of rejection is still in effect, but it's probably better to carry on than to dwell on that. Dick collects himself, tries to find his inner Bruce. Start hard, go softer…

His old mentor watches him intently. Dick's hands are fidgeting because he's not sure what to do with them, which never happens. His palms are sweating a little. All right, purse lips. Then, bring out Bambi eyes for good measure –

"Wait."

Dick deflates. "What?"

Now it's Bruce who looks embarrassed. Or uncomfortable, something. "You can't do an imitation of me. You're not me. You need to … find your own way of doing it."

He lowers his eyes, avoiding Dick's questioning gaze. "You need to figure out how to look at me as if –"

It's rare for Batman not to finish a sentence. Dick watches him, and something suddenly snaps into sharp focus when he realizes that this is a once-in-a-lifetime-chance.

"As if what…?" He softly asks, leaning in closer again, studying the other man's rugged face. "As if _I love you_?"

He said it.

And it was easy to say. Now it's easy, now that he's pretending it's not real.

Bruce looks at him stoically, but his pupils go wide. And Dick knows that his do, as well.

He wets his lips, making sure to do it slowly, so that the other man has time to see it, all of it. And then, he smiles. He suddenly knows that his way of doing it would be with a smile. Light, coy, a little cocky. Half-and-half.

"As if I want you, Bruce?" He purrs, letting the name roll off his tongue like he'd always dreamed of doing.

All his instincts seem to kick in at once now; he moves closer to the edge of the bed. Their room is small, so they've been sitting very close to begin with, always in reaching distance. He takes Bruce's big callused hand in his, runs his fingers across the softer flesh in his palm, lightly, like a breeze.

"As if I have _always_ wanted you…?"

Bruce's lips part again, and Dick thinks that this time, he wouldn't remove himself if he kissed him. But instead of going for his lips, he gently presses their foreheads together, before moving on to the other man's ear.

"Take off your coat," he whispers, one finger running down Bruce's front. "Drives me crazy that you're still in it."

The older man's eyes narrow sharply, as if he resents being ordered to do something, but his breathing has picked up, and then his large paw breaks free from Dick's touch and starts fumbling with the buttons on his cashmere coat. When Dick slides his hands inside the folds to speed up the process, Bruce lets him. His body is warm.

By the end of it, Dick is standing above him, holding the coat in one hand like a trophy, with Bruce still seated, glowering up at him with an indescribable look in his eyes. They're both breathing a little faster than removing one article of clothing would require.

Dick smirks. His voice is low and husky when he says, "Good," before unceremoniously dropping the expensive coat on the floor.

Bruce observes him as if he's seeing him for the first time. He looks angry – or maybe another emotion that Dick can't pinpoint because he's never seen it on him before. His tongue briefly surfaces as he licks his lips, and replies, "It was. Nice work."

His voice is hard. Dick furtively checks between his legs if he's hard elsewhere too, but of course he's not, it's not that easy. Bruce catches him looking, and something tightens around his cheeks and mouth.

"Let's move on," he growls, in a voice that almost causes Dick to vibrate.

His feelings of triumph dissipate under his mentor's firm gaze. He becomes flustered for a moment. "…to what?"

"The physical part," Bruce says, enunciating every word as if he wants to _chew_ on him, "Wasn't that what you really needed help with."

Dick goes deep red. "I said I didn't want to do that."

"Neither do I," Bruce retorts, still glowering, and there's the strange sense that they're both faking it.

"You asked me for tips, Dick. If there's anything you want to ask, _ask_."

Dick stares back at him and thinks about how it's always been like this; genuine moments of warmth, followed by cautious retreats, and then brief flashes of something heated and deep that never really breaks out.

"All right," he says, every bit as testy, crossing his arms over his chest. "Have you ever kissed someone you hated…?"

"Yes."

Bruce looks mad that he has to talk about this, and mad that it's with him. It's a really good look, and Dick's flusteredness intensifies.

"And did you … did you ever …"

"Did I _do the do_ with someone I hated…?" Bruce is teasing him, but it's actually weirdly flattering that he remembers. "Yes."

"What … what's it like?"

Bruce blinks up at him, as if he can't believe his tutelage could have resulted in this naif. His mouth grows as hard as his voice. "Better than you think."

Something in his inflection crawls right up Dick's spine and makes him shiver. He has no trouble believing it. His mentor is a troubled, twisted man sometimes. Dick could never truly be like him. Not that he'd want to.

"I –"

He drops his arms, defenseless. "I don't think I can do it," he says. He realizes that it's probably true, and suddenly feels ridiculous for coming to Bruce with this.

His mentor observes him. "You're not me," he says, not as if it's a bad thing.

Dick hangs his head, anyway. "No, I'm not. Look, this was a dumb idea, I shouldn't have –"

Bruce doesn't let him finish, but his voice is gentle. "You could at least try the oldest trick in the book," he suggests.

Dick looks up. "The - ?"

"Close your eyes."

"You mean, close my eyes next time I…?"

"No. I mean now. Close them now."

Dick presses his lips together; this meeting has gotten weird enough, and he's not sure he wants to try more experiments. But Bruce's special brand of assertiveness soothes him like few other things do, and he's been missing it, missing this.

And he knows enough to know you don't say no if Batman offers to show you a trick.

He does like he's asked. And waits.

"It's simple. A cliché, really. I'm surprised you didn't think of it."

His heart skips as he hears Bruce speak again, _very_ close. Obviously, Batman still can't be beat when it comes to sneaking up on someone.

Dick feels warm breath touch his skin. The proximity makes him feel tense, but not in a bad way; which is what it is, always has been. He listens with baited breath, realizing that now _Bruce_ is whispering in _his_ ear. He can't imagine that Bruce doesn't know, that he's got no idea what it does with him. He must be using it. But it's not sleazy, it's not phony. Or maybe Bruce is simply that good.

"You close your eyes, you let your body do what it does, but in your mind, you –"

He briefly pauses when Dick bumps into his face with a small, compliant _"mmm"._ Bruce stays silent for a moment, and then he softly touches his chin, and Dick lets him, blindly trusting. When Bruce's deep voice returns, it's even more of a breathy mutter than before.

"You imagine someone else. It's that easy. You imagine some- someone –"

"Mhmm."

"… someone who- who _loves you_."


	5. Chapter 5

"… someone who- who  _loves you_."

Dick freezes, turning as rigid as a pillar while his ears try to repeatedly input the words into his brain, and his brain refuses to process, insisting that they don't mean what he thinks they mean, that clearly there's been some mistake. Bruce is talking theory, _surely_ he's talking theory, it can't be any other way. But Bruce's hand is still on his face, and then Dick hears him draw a tiny, shallow, breath, and then his warm mouth is on his lips, kissing him.

Dick's eyes fly open, and then _he_ flies, face first into the kiss, slinging his arms around the taller man's neck. Bruce grunts at the impact, but then he holds him, squeezing him back hard, and then all hell breaks loose.

There's no rhythm, no system. They embrace clumsily in the narrow space, touching mouths while they bump into the TV and then into the chair's armrest, and then they're sitting in it, or rather, Bruce is sitting, with Dick in his lap. Their kisses are hard, and there's passion, but there's anger, too. Dick is angry that it's happening _now_ , Bruce is presumably angry that it happens at all, and yet there is no stopping them. It's greed, furious and pure and mutual.

Dick flinches violently as Bruce starts kissing down his throat, but not with discomfort. He hisses, entangling his fingers in the older man's sleek black hair and pulls, resulting in a guttural moan.

"Let me-" Bruce growls between dabbing hot little kisses onto his collarbone, "Let me give you some more pointers –"

"Yeah," Dick moans, only tangentially in relation to what he's said.

"All you have to do," Bruce mutters against his skin, "Is use what you've already got. Little things. Like this; I noticed that you straighten your back when you're turned on, which tells me that you must be sensitive, _here_."

Dick yelps lightly, then arches as Bruce strokes his back, rubbing his fingers down his spine, sensing something about him that he hadn't even realized. His hands come to rest on the small of Dick's back, until the younger man reaches down and guides them onto his ass. The deep sigh that Bruce utters at that makes him laugh.

"When did you notice?" Dick whispers, grinning slyly while he nuzzles Bruce's face, grinding in his lap. He wants to know how long he's been looking at him that way.

"Dick –"

"When?"

Bruce doesn't tell him. Instead, he puts his big hands back around Dick's smiling face, stops kissing his collarbone and starts kissing his mouth, even more desperately than before. Dick isn't sure what brought it on, but he moans in agreement, anyway.

"I'm sorry," Bruce suddenly blurts out against his lips. His voice cracks, for real this time, and Dick realizes that he's shaking, "I'm sorry, Dick, I'm so sorry, for- for everything -"

"No-" Dick mumbles back between fevered kisses, "No, Bruce. No- Not- _Now_ –"

Bruce lets out another ragged sigh, but when Dick gets up, takes his hand and tugs him toward the bed, he follows. Before they reach the bed, he's taken the lead, pushing the lighter man down on his back. Dick bounces on the mattress, and a jolt runs through his body as he watches Bruce crawl on top of him with that wild, intent look on his face. It's bizarre how naturally it happens, as if they'd always been a hair's breadth from doing this anyway, as if it's insane that it hasn't happened sooner. The old bedframe creaks under their combined weight, then in synch with their frenzied squirming as they lap and grope at each other, Bruce tearing at the elastic fabric of Dick's shirt while Dick fumbles with the buttons on his. There's limbs and teeth everywhere. They're gracelessly dry-humping, running their fingers through each other's hair and all over their bodies, and nobody is apologizing for anything.

This is real. It wouldn't be this pathetic if it wasn't real.

The conclusion isn't epic and dream-like, not some fantastical interplay of shadows and light. It's Bruce hastily unzipping Dick's pants, pushing his hand through the slit and wrangling his erection out of his damp boxers to jerk him off hard and fast. And it feels better than pretty much anything.

"Ah-" Dick's hips start bucking. "Bruce –"

"Yes."

Dick squirms and whimpers and instantly knows he won't last. He's been waiting too long for this. He starts panting, going from thrusting into the offered, tight fist to convulsing on the mattress so damn fast, too fast. His voice turns into a whine.

"Bruce -"

"Yes."

Bruce's voice sounds choked. He looks so pleased as he watches him come all over his pumping fist, his own pants, the bed, everywhere. Or at least Dick thinks that's how it goes, from what he can see before everything turns blurry.

As soon as Dick can see straight again, he fixes his eyes back on the other man kneeling on the bed. He looks at Bruce's face, then at the sizeable bulge in his pants, then at his face again. His eyes are wide and expectant. He's been satisfied, now he's curious.

As if Bruce has somehow waited for him to give some silent go-ahead, he finally undoes his belt and zipper with fast, impatient hands. The length and girth of his cock is impressive even to Dick's dazed eyes as he starts beating himself off, even more furiously than he did him. Bruce doesn't moan or beg, but he's gasping hard, flushed from his ears to his neck. He looks deranged. It's beautiful.

Dick licks his lips and spreads his lean long legs even wider, squirming forward so Bruce is kneeling between his thighs. His shirt is rolled up to his armpits, putting his sweat-covered torso on display, his pants are haphazardly clinging to his hips, a fine dark trail of hair leading to where his cock is still hanging out. Before Bruce even gets around to spilling on his toned stomach, Dick is fully hard again, stroking himself along with him. It seems weirdly fitting that it goes down like this, that this is how they end up. No poetry, no grand gestures, just two sweaty, half-naked guys madly jerking off to each other.

They finish in short succession, Bruce clenching his teeth and muttering something filthy under his breath, and Dick sighing _"yesyesYES",_ and then it's done, and it's all over.

They lie side-by-side on their backs in their own mess for a good long while, taking deep, shuddering breaths, until Dick turns his head and says matter-of-factly, "I still have to go back, you know."

Bruce lifts his head, his stern face a little slacker than usual. He nuzzles Dick's shoulder before he kisses it. "I know. So do I."

Dick nestles up against him. Of course they both know. They're too smart to convince themselves that this _changes everything_ , and that they're going to skip off to Disneyland Paris together now. Even though Dick wouldn't mind riding the teacups with Bruce. The thought is so dumb it makes him chuckle. Bruce cocks a brow at him.

"Nothing," Dick says, looking back at the ceiling.

The older man makes a noise in his throat and rolls over to spoon him, putting one big arm around him. Dick closes his eyes. It's the best.

"I hate it," Bruce eventually confesses, sounding forlorn. "The thought of you. Being with someone else."

It's not a claim that he's staking. He knows he's in no position to. He knows he has no right. It's merely admission. Dick gets it.

"Mmm," he mumbles. "Me too."

"This isn't how I- I wanted it to be." Bruce is drawing small, gentle circles on his naked skin with his fingers. "This isn't how I would've –"

"Batman, don't start."

Dick doesn't want to talk or think about it. He just wants to lie here, basking in the afterglow of something that technically hadn't been that great, but in actuality had been pretty amazing. A couple minutes of uninterrupted serenity before they both have to return to their separate lives, or worse, try to figure out what the hell that just was.

Even with his eyes closed, he knows that Bruce's mind is racing right now, and for a moment, he thinks that he's not gonna let it go. But then, Gotham's protector hoarsely, meekly says, "Okay," and simply hugs him tighter.

They fall quiet, keeping their exchanges to lazy caresses and soft kisses. They're probably both halfway to getting horny again, but they're hesitant to go there. They're both sore, mentally and physically. This seems good for now.

Below them, the bells are still chiming.

Bruce raises his head as the time for their departure starts looming larger. "Oh. I almost forgot. I got you a present."

"Really…?"

Dick opens his eyes to squint at him. He's always loved Christmas, but his last months had been so crazy that it had sort of become an afterthought. That, and the mere thought of anything relating to family made him sad lately.

He sits up and watches Bruce slide out of bed and bend down to the coat that's still on the floor. He doesn't seem like the obvious candidate, but Dick knows that Bruce, too, adores Christmas. This is true for both Bruce Wayne, _and_ Batman.

Dick feels blood creep into his cheeks when Bruce turns around and hands him a small, nicely wrapped box. He turns it in his hands. "Bruce, I-"

"Go on. Open it."

The other man looks on, expectantly; Bruce's favorite part of the holiday has always been gift-giving, since he feels that it's the only Christmas thing he's any good at.

Dick unwraps his gift while Bruce belatedly stuffs his shirt back into his pants.

It's a pair of titanium cufflinks. They're light, well-crafted, and pretty. They don't have a Bat or a "W" on it. They're engraved "G".

"Wow, these are great!"

Bruce sits back down at the edge of the bed, turning toward him. He smiles for what seems like the first time since they got here, and points at the cufflinks.

"The right one contains a powerful sedative, the left one an universal antitoxin," he explains, his raised brows expressing bewildered amusement that Dick would seriously think he'd give him mere accessories. " _Always_ remember which is which."

"I …" Dick clutches them in his hands. He hasn't even expected to get anything this year. Something tells him that the Spyral crowd is not big on Secret Santa. And now this, coming from Bruce …

"I don't know what to… I mean, thank you."

"You don't need to thank me."

Bruce sounds melancholy, and his features darken a little. Perhaps he's more self-aware than Dick gave him credit for.

A short silence ensues, until Dick thinks of something.

"So, you wanna see your present?"

Bruce looks genuinely embarrassed at that. "Dick, you shouldn't have," he grumbles, and it's such a goofy and sincere reaction that Dick can't help but grin at it.

"You don't even know what it is yet. I think you'll like it."

Bruce opens his mouth to protest, but Dick hops out of bed, finds his bag, and pulls out his little kit of Spyral essentials.

"I didn't wrap it, but …"

His mentor eyes the little unlabeled plastic bottle that Dick is holding with barely contained suspicion. "What is it…?"

"It's extra-strong stain remover," Dick says, ceremoniously handing it over. "I'll admit, it's more of a _spontaneous_ gift, but, er."

He gestures at Bruce's pants, then his, prompting him to look down.

"Ah," Bruce makes, and Dick starts to giggle. It's incredibly awkward, yet magically not horrible.

"Pragmatic gifts, my favorite," Bruce says, unscrewing the bottle with expert fingers. "Thank you."

They sit alongside each other in silence as they work on removing all outside traces of this evening ever happening. Bruce is halfway through making his pants presentable again when he pauses.

"It hasn't escaped my attention that I didn't really help you with your problem," he muses, looking down at his hands.

"Yeah…"

Dick puts down his mess of clothes, and reaches across the bed to take his hand.

"But thanks for trying, anyway."


End file.
